


These Boots are Made for Walking

by Jazzybot4 (SniperinaJumper)



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: But really doesn't, Fox hates his shoes, M/M, Mentions of gratuitious violence, Ponds is a mama rancor, This is the one where Ponds is a fashionista, doting boyfriends, mentions of an assasination atempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23660587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SniperinaJumper/pseuds/Jazzybot4
Summary: Fox watches Ponds be at loose ends, and then figure himself out. There's a lot of thirst, and Fox is going to grump about it always. Ponds thinks he's cute.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox/CC-6454 | Ponds
Comments: 11
Kudos: 227





	These Boots are Made for Walking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Revelations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590375) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 



> Inspired by Soft Wars. Why did you get me into this ship, friend. Why. I was perfectly happy devouring them and then you showed me these: https://maulusque.tumblr.com/post/615335156459454464 and I haven't been the same since.
> 
> To be fair neither has Fox so we're even.

The sharp click of footsteps made Fox lift his head from where he’d been bent over his desk, the photos of his latest victims apartment currently spread out in front of him like tactical data pre-invasion. Those footsteps were not anything like what he’d expected to hear when Ponds came home from a trip out to Tirans for cake and upholstery updates, and he had a hand on his blaster before he could stop it finding the familiar grip. 

“What. The fuck. Are those.” Fox said, voice dangerously level. Ponds looked over (and down) at his boyfriend, a shit-eating grin firmly in place. He didn’t remark on Fox’s hand on his weapon, because both of them were paranoid assholes on a mellow day. This wasn’t the first time Ponds had broken Fox’s concentration to the threat of more serious imminent violence than their customary roughhousing. 

“Do you like them?” he asked, doing a quick-footed spin in the knee-high boots, modeled it looked like after what some demented genius thought trooper gear looked like. It was a popular trend, and Fox figured that sooner rather than later the GAR aesthetic would saturate enough social strata to be considered fashionable. 

He hadn’t considered these abominations though, or why Ponds would feel the need to wear them home when he had perfectly serviceable and comfortable boots. Armored ergonomic boots designed for Corelias streets, and bright enough to go with all of Ponds loud outfits. 

“No.” Fox said, even as his mouth went a little dry following the line of those boots up to Ponds ass. “Take them off before you break an ankle.” he groused, absolutely not saying a word about how Ponds' ass looked in high heels. Now that he’d been given the all-clear for it, it seemed like his brain was packing near on a decade of thirst into every moment that it could get away with. 

“I’ve made it three klicks here on them and they’re not actually that uncomfortable.” Ponds said, just to be a shithead. “They come in red too, but like fuck am I wearing those.” he teased. 

That meant Ponds HAD bought the red pair too. Ugh. 

“You’re a disgrace.” Fox groused even as he leaned back from his desk, letting Ponds bounce over and get his welcome home kiss. The parting nip made him growl, it always made him growl and he would never cop to it ever being a whine, no matter what kark Ponds wanted to think. 

“I’m a delight!” Ponds chirped, and then he dumped his prize in Fox’s arms, a thick square of fabric tightly bound together into a swatch book. Tiran by now understood that Fox's taste was excellent, thank you, and got his opinion before going to print with any new designs that weren’t classics or commissions. Sometimes he ignored Foxs’ reviews, but he still enjoyed the Commanders shining commentary on the latest trends in pillow bindings. 

The second thing that was deposited on his desk was a still-hot tub of the face-meltingly spicy takeout that the place in their building did just for them. Fox tugged Ponds down for another kiss, just for that, because he’d forgotten to eat again. Trust the mama-rancor to remember that. 

“You’re going to burn your tastebuds off.” Ponds accused, but then he was perched on the clear spot that Fox kept for him, looking over the impending carnage with a critical eye. “Gree is going to charge you double for this shit show.” he said cheerfully as he moved photos around. 

“Gree can do whatever the fuck he wants, the network is paying for it anyway.” Fox replied, watching the sway of Ponds’ ankles in those Fucking Boots. He was gonna start a fuckin’ riot in those things, Fox was sure. The tight athletic pants that Ponds wore everywhere these days didn’t so much as break the line from the garish paneling up to his ass. 

Again with the ass, Fox was a gods-damned pervert at this point. Of course, because he was actually a damn ninja like from that one backwater, Ponds did in fact notice Fox checking him out. 

“Sparring?” Ponds teased him, just to be a shit. “After dinner workout down on the training floor?” he asked, since that was their third favorite game. “I’ll wear the boots.” 

Fox very deliberately put his takeout in an open desk drawer, before he hauled the smug asshole off the surface and into a tussle that wound up lasting long enough for Fox to get off and Ponds to be smug about it. 

\-----------------

That seemed to be the trend of the month. Ponds would go out, either to his endless list of community classes for bored upper class Society Wives, or to Tirans, or the other three furniture makers that Fox liked enough to work with. Fox went off for a tenday and a half filming his latest disaster reno, and Ponds sent him off with a really rather spectacular incentive to come home and to be extra cranky on screen. He also did another shirtless demo and could feel his social media ratings go up. 

But every time Ponds came home, he had a new pair of shoes on, usually heels, usually some mockery of GAR aesthetic, or otherwise ridiculous and impractical. It was Corelia, there was a lot of impractical Ponds could find. 

Kriff, Fox was going to spontaneously combust one of these days if his boyfriend didn’t cut the shit with the shoes. 

It was the end of his filming cycle though, coming home after fifteen days out of the house, that he’d stumbled into what he was sure was Ponds losing his entire kriffing mind. 

Bolts of fabric leaned against the kitchen table, and Ponds was doing something at a machine that Fox had never seen before. It was hideously complicated, looked like a Naboo cruiser, and hummed as fabric moved under the swiftly moving needles. Pieces of something were piled beside it, already joined. 

Ponds was definitely nice enough to not shank him with the pinking shears that he’d grabbed when Fox shut the door and dropped his duffel. 

“The fuck is this?” he asked, gesturing to the main room that was now filled with fabric fallout. “When did you even have time to do all of this!” There were at least four bolts of fabric draped over the dining room chairs, the couch was a ruin of something white and very reflective, there was a small pile of ribbon spools strung off the chandelier, and Fox was certain that this was after Ponds had put everything away last night, because the gods all forbid that the man leave his craft shit out where people could see it. 

There was a rack sitting by the window, finished garments hanging incriminatingly. This wasn’t the first time Fox had come home to chaos but damn, this one was absolutely going to be bad for his blood pressure. But the clean lines on the fabric made him pause, and the crate of actual GAR-issued armor in the corner was suspicious enough that he didn’t ask, yet, knowing that Ponds would tell him one way or another. 

“There was a whole store of hideous bullshit and I got offended.” Ponds said, voice mild. The man had a poker face trained by the Jedi, but he still couldn’t lie for shit. “This is me proving a point, and also I’ve been taking classes for months so may as well branch out right? Foods in the reheater, since I figured you’d be home two hours ago.” He looked up as Fox came over to peer at his work, and Fox let Ponds tug him into a welcome home kiss. 

“Would have been home two hours ago if the network hadn’t demanded extra after-action talking head time.” Fox grumbled, melting into Ponds shoulder as fingers found his hair and scratched at just the right pressure under the curve of his skull. He wouldn’t admit it under torture or….something worse than torture, crying children maybe, but he had missed his boyfriend. 

“Karking vultures.” Ponds agreed, grinning at the back of Fox’s head where he couldn’t see it. It was nice, this. Fox was only a little less likely to murder him on the sparring floor if he kept with the magic fingers and the lazy drawl and the smelling good. “Let me finish this bit, get it back on the form while you eat. Bed, after.” he said, shoving Fox in the direction of the kitchen. 

Fox let him get away with it only because he was hungry enough to eat a whole bantha and hadn’t realized it until this moment. 

\----------------------

“So. It’s not just the store full of fuck ugly.” Ponds says, later. After they’ve destroyed another holosim and are now curled up together in Ponds huge bed. Ponds picked it out, he always argues, so it’s his bed. Fox lets him think that, true as it may or may not be. As it stands, Fox would rather sleep on the couch in the living room than sleep in this bed without Ponds here. 

Ray shield built into the canopy or no. 

“I figured.” Fox drawls, but he’s not going to move from where he’s draped over Ponds chest, nuzzling in for a proper sleep cycle. Ponds is doing that magic finger thing at the base of his skull again. 

“Someone tried to kill Blockade.”

What. 

Ponds has stopped the magic fingers. Is very still. Every single one of Fox’s muscles are tight and ready to go. His heart is racing, combat-sharp mental protocols engaging. White-hot rage has keyed him up ready to go.

“What.” he says, a statement, as Ponds presses his hand to the center of Fox’s shoulder blades, pressing him into the bed where he’s rolled. Ponds never telegraphs his attacks, and now Fox can’t really see him, just feel where he’s rolled himself onto Fox to keep him from leaving the bed and hitting the next transport to Coruscant. 

“Blockade is still a scary kriffing bastard.” Ponds says, petting slowly down Fox’s spine in one slow heavy motion, before repeating it again, grounding Fox in the here-and-now. “And he was wearing the Naboo-made stuff. Soaks blaster bolts like stale bread in soup. But.” and he presses harder on the next pass, slow and steady and here-and-now, Fox unable to escape where he’s been pinned down. When did his blaster appear in his hand? “But I’m making him a full set of Senate regalia.” he admits, and Fox is trembling but not moving. Progress, progress and a lot of time between now and then. He can almost smell the too-sweet cleaning chems the mousedroids stocked, for their offices. The last time Blockade had to deal with an assassin, it had resulted in new carpet. The same shade of carpet as the area rug in the living room, actually. 

“Someone tried to kill Blockade.” Fox says, still processing that. “And I wasn’t…” and now Ponds is splayed over his back, warm weight pinning him down properly, knees planted on either side of Fox’s hips and his hands wrapped firm and warm yet gentle around his forearms. 

“Do not.” Ponds says, right in his ear, weight unyielding even as Fox sinks into the bed. Memory foam keeps him from being able to do much, the lack of leverage makes it so comfortable but also makes it ideal for these conversations. No leverage means he can’t accidentally snap any bones. 

“Do not go there. Blockade gutted the first assassin and the second one got pinned down by Papercut. We’re already following leads into who hired them, and the Jedi are helping. I asked Mace to look into it.” and Fox breathes deep for the first time in several minutes. “So. I’m making Blockade and all our other Senate brothers armor. It’s got to be Senate formal and it’s got to be movable and breathable and it’s got to be psychological as much as it is physical. I’ve been reading a lot of Naboo political theory actually, and Sabe had some ideas for what to do with it. But I’m telling you because I want your opinion on it, when it’s done.” 

Fox closes his eyes, letting Ponds cadence wash over him. Ponds has that slight burr that marks all the CCs, trained by the Alphas, trained by Jango Fett. As close as they get to a proper Mandalorian accent, and Ponds has picked up a loose drawl from somewhere that’s soft, in his head. 

“I want you to test it with me too.” Ponds says, voice going quieter as Fox’s heart rate slows, deep contact soaking into him and settling the snarling animal in the back of his head, the thing that wants blood and viscera in his teeth for the audacity of going after his little brothers. 

“Okay.” Fox says after some time, back nearly to the boneless just-about-to-sleep place he was before, warm with Ponds still holding him to the bed, letting the tension drain out of him one muscle group at a time. The effort of relaxing his back makes him hiss, having to do it in fits and starts as the unclenching hurts more than the tension. But Ponds is there too, a warm hand smoothing down his spine again. “Okay. Stress testing. I can absolutely do that. And I’ll veto any of it that looks and feels like shit.” he says, letting his voice go quiet too. 

Ponds pets him like that until he finishes unclenching. The morning will probably have a screaming fight, but here, and now, he knows that his brothers are safe, that nobody is going to take them from him, that they have defended their own. He can trust their skill, in a way that before he couldn’t always. There are no more Sith, he reminded himself. 

They’re free, and it’s scary, but it’s worth it. Blockade is doing his job, and will keep doing his job. No brothers died, and now. 

Well. Now Ponds sounds like a man on a mission, and that’s always been a good look on him. Maybe this one could be the one that sets him on his feet properly. Instead of trying to find something to fill the time, now he’s got something to do. 

Yeah, Ponds is a flashy asshole with shit taste in footwear. But he’s just as protective of their little brothers as Fox professes not to be but actually is. He’s going to do it right, and Fox is going to back him up the entire way. Kriff the Senate, they’re Vode, and they’ll never be alone so long as two of them still breathe. 

Ponds on a mission is kind of hot to contemplate. Fox wonders if he’ll be up for a morning tussle before their screaming match, and if he’ll wear the Boots for it. He’s too drifty to ask now, but he’s sure that yes, Ponds will wear those karking boots if Fox insults them again.

He nearly misses the breathed “Vode an” just behind his ear, won’t remember it in the morning, but for the moment, it’s as much as they’ll ever admit to each other, what they are underneath all the squabbling and scuffling and screaming. 

Brothers all.


End file.
